


The Devil Wears Westwood

by titebarnacle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, molliarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titebarnacle/pseuds/titebarnacle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper and Jim Moriarty go together like whipped cream and pork rinds. Which is of course why they find themselves inexplicably thrown into a twisted adventure. Could it be love? Or something stomach churning? Post "The Great Game" and pre "Reichenbach." Molliarty, some Sherlolly. E for the wild thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on my FanFiction.net account under titebarnacle if it looks eerily familiar...

Molly Hooper was so drunk that she felt like her head was swimming in a large gin and tonic aquarium on her shoulders. She was so drunk that she had lost her shawl (the bathroom?) and her left shoe (the dance floor?), and was currently wallowing in confusion on a barstool. 

It was one of those fantastically expensive and hip clubs in London, one in which she felt deeply out of place. Or at least, she had felt that way at the beginning of the night, when she wandered in, compelled by lonely curiosity and after work depression. It had been such a crap day at work. The paperwork on her desk had toppled over like a lost game of Jenga. And then there was Sherlock; those cheekbones, those eyes. He was basically a crazy person, and she knew that. He was in love with no one but himself, half-mad with brilliance, and completely detached from humanity. But still, her unrequited love for him burned like a supernova. A very obvious supernova that everyone laughed about. 

The club was throbbing with music and attractive people. Molly regretted ever wandering in for a drink, although that had been hours ago. She also regretted doing the YMCA on the dance floor when the YMCA had not actually been playing, but those kinds of regrets were for the morning. It was no wonder she avoided spontaneity as a rule. There was no one there she knew, but she was too drunk to make the dangerous journey home. 

And why should she go home? No one but her cat waited for her. Working at the morgue was exhausting, and she had the day off tomorrow. That was, of course, if Sherlock didn’t have a job for her or something. That outrageously deep voice was like a siren’s call to her; she could never say no to it.

Oh lord. She had to pee. She could see the stylized doors to the bathroom to the left of the bar, but it was a long way away in her condition. Besides that, the club was getting more and more crowded. She would just have to take a chance and make an attempt. Molly crawled off the tall barstool and wobbled her way towards the bathroom, weaving between people who seemed to be a lot less drunk than she. She gave them half-smiles and tried her best to act natural. It was hard when her legs felt so thoroughly made of pudding. 

She smiled and apologized her way through the crowd until she had quite nearly made it to the bathroom, when she recognized a face that took her breath away and made her completely forget her bathroom mission.

Jim from IT. Otherwise known as Jim Moriarty. Otherwise known as Sherlock’s extremely crafty enemy who had dated her in order to get closer to Sherlock. A super villain. An extremely evil murderer. The worst crime, to Molly, was of course him pretending to like her. He had been her first boyfriend in years, and it had all been completely phony. 

Jim seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He was looking dapper a fitted suit, with a tall drink in his hand and his hair slicked to the side. Both of his eyebrows raised high on his forehead as he gave her the once-over with his eyes. He was looking at her like she was a piece of meat. Drunk meat. Molly did not particularly appreciate that. She squinted her eyes and gave him a hard stare, and moved two steps closer to him. He smelled like expensive aftershave and wickedness, the combination of which made her feel dizzier. When he had simply been Jim from IT, he had never been this cool. The scrawny guy who loved musicals and mojitos. This Moriarty character was something completely different. 

“Molly Hooper? Well, how funny. How odd. The little Molly-wog. You are drunk, my girl.”

Jim’s voice rose and fell strangely, as if he were putting on some kind of show or vocal performance. If she weren’t drunk, angry, and slightly embarrassed, she would have laughed. But as it happened, she was all of those things at once. And she hated him for what he had done, both to her, and to Sherlock. He was so smug. She tried to subdue a wild urge to slap his smug little face with that little weasel smile. 

“Oh, dear me Molly. You have lost your shoe—”

Molly chose not to fight her wild urge any longer. She slapped the smile off Jim Moriarty’s face and relished in his surprise. It would have been a perfect moment if both her bladder, and now her upset stomach, were screaming for her to make it to the bathroom. Jim touched his cheek and looked at Molly with amazement. He could not remember the last time someone had actually hit him. It was sort of fun. 

“I will murder you for that,” he growled. Molly had no idea if he was being serious or not, and it didn’t matter. She had to go. Now. 

“Sorry, got to go, excuse me.” She slurred her words and turned to rush towards the bathroom. She didn’t have time to acknowledge Jim’s death threat.

Molly burst into the ladies’ room and dashed into an empty stall. What followed was best kept between Molly and the toilet. She did feel a lot better, however, once she had emerged from the stall and washed up in the sink. She was startled to see her own reflection in the mirror. Water stains down her blouse, hair matted with sweat and whatever else, smeared lipstick. Her skin was pasty white, and her eyes half open. It was not a beautiful sight. She vowed to leave the club immediately. 

Jim was waiting for her outside of the bathroom, which didn’t surprise her. His cheek was still red from her attack. 

“I’m taking you with me,” he began, “and you can’t do anything about it. Also, I found your shoe.”

Jim raised the missing article above his head. Yes indeed, that sensible leather pump was hers. She felt the tiniest bit grateful, in spite of the fact that this was essentially a kidnapping.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molliarty continues!

Molly was about to vomit in the back of Jim Moriarty’s sleek, villainous car. She shut her eyes tightly to avoid looking at the moving scenery outside, and gripped the shiny leather seats with both hands. Jim had promised to simply take her back to his flat, but she was too drunk to tell if he was trying to be funny. If he were really kidnapping her, she wished he would just come out with it. 

Jim was seated beside her, staring at her as if she were the Loch Ness monster in his backseat. In his rudest, scariest voice, he demanded that the driver be more careful around the corners. Molly was a loaded gun, of sorts, and the car was practically new. Not that he couldn’t get another one. He shrugged.

“Are you really taking me home?” Molly asked, staring at Jim’s perfectly polished shoes.

“Why? You want to get another drink?” Jim smiled wickedly.

“Oh bloody hell, just take me home. I’m of no use to you.” Molly wiped the sweat from her brow and looked helplessly around the car for something to puke on. Of course, the car was spotless.

“I like you Molly. You’re really weird. You—”

Before Moriarty could continue, Molly threw herself against the side door and wiggled the handles.

“Stop the car! Stop the car!”

The beefy driver/bodyguard pulled rapidly to the side of the road, just as Molly Hooper worked the door open and flung half her body out of the car. Jim Moriarty did the unthinkable; he reached over and held her long, unusually soft hair as she hurled all over the street. It was horribly awkward for all parties involved.

When the job was complete, Moriarty offered Molly a clean handkerchief. She sat back wearily in the car as the driver continued in the proper direction towards her flat. She wondered what Sherlock would have thought about this whole business, and smiled to herself drunkenly.

“You are smiling? Pray tell!” Moriarty asked in a phony “shocked” voice.

“Don’t make small talk with me. Shut up. Shhh,” was Molly’s mangled response. This whole situation was already as weird as she could possibly imagine.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Molly clenched her jaw and counted to ten over and over again, trying to imagine things that didn’t make her nauseous. This list included her fluffy bed back home, her favorite game shows. Meanwhile, Jim Moriarty was focused on Molly; staring at her as if she were a Rubix cube, solving problems behind his black hole eyes. The driver, as everyone hoped, was staring at the road.

They were soon parked outside of Molly’s flat, though it took her a few moments to notice that the car had indeed stopped running. She was deeply surprised that this super villain had actually taken her where he promised. And safely too, with no torture or death threats or anything. It reminded her a little of when they had fake-dated, when he had played the Nice Guy card to an annoying degree. 

She went to exit the car when the doors suddenly locked shut. Oh dear. So here was the torture.

“I misjudged you, Molly Hooper. You might be of some use to me yet.” His voice was low, more like the purr of a cat than a man.

“I’ve already been of some use to you! I want to go home now, I do have plans to vomit some more.”

Jim laughed this sort of crazy, uneven laugh that she had only heard a few times in their short time together. She tried the door handles again, seeming to forget that she had heard them lock already.

“Is Sherlock still breaking your widdle heart?” Jim asked cruelly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really? All of London seems to. And I’ll tell you what, Molly. Sherlock won’t be your problem forever. Answer my phone calls, when I call you. Answer my texts, too. I can make you happy. I can make sure you’ll never be vomiting alone in a club again.”

“Please! How could you make me happy? Also, what’s that called when you know a criminal? Co-conspirating? Conspiration? Um…co-conspiracy?” 

Jim didn’t choose to dignify her word search with a response. Instead, he moved closer to her on the leather seats of the car until they were sitting side by side, their legs touching. He took his hands and placed one on her shoulder and one under her chin.

“I want to kiss you, but you smell awful,” he whispered. Molly felt herself trembling. This man was insane.

Instead of a kiss on the lips, he lowered her head with both hands on her cheeks and kissed her forehead. Then placed his hands on her shoulders and traced his fingers over her arms, her collarbone. Molly was glued to the seat, shocked, terrified, vaguely turned on, and nauseated. She was so, so confused.

The doors of the car unlocked before she had a chance to respond with a much-deserved second slap, and Molly wriggled away from Jim in order to dash out. She wasn’t sure if she felt like thanking him for the ride home. She wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, really. 

“Don’t forget, Molly. Answer your phone.” Jim called out from inside the car as she dashed up the stairs to unlock her front door. She didn’t turn around or respond to it, she just wanted to be asleep on a pile of towels in front of the toilet for now. The expensive black car sped off, and Molly heaved a great happy sigh of relief. So, no torture after all. 

About ten minutes after Molly had entered her tiny flat, just as she was aggressively using mouthwash, she received a text. It was from a number her phone didn’t recognize:

_We are going to have fun, my little mouse. –JM_

Angry and horrified, particularly about being called a mouse, Molly sent a drunken text in reply:

_GO 2 HELLL._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly finds herself in the middle of a game of "genius vs. genius."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Getting slowly to the kinky stuff, enjoy! :)

Molly Hooper was suffering from the unimaginable pain of a hangover when her worst fear came true. She received a text message from a very, very familiar number:

_Come to the morgue. Bring duct tape and a tube of toothpaste. –SH_

She rolled over in her bed and wished for death. Of all of her days off, naturally Sherlock needed her the day after she had been clubbing with Moriarty. Sort of. She made her way to the mirror and gasped. It was worse than she imagined; every inch of her screamed “drinking problem.” Her hair was matted, her eyes were puffy beyond recognition, and she smelled flammable. Sherlock would know within moments exactly what she had been up to. Makeup. This was a job for makeup. 

After a quick shower, Molly spent the rest of her time carefully applying concealer and praying Sherlock wouldn’t try to deduce something about her. She could practically see the wicked name of “Moriarty” written on her forehead. In any case, she was rushing to be ready. He was absolutely waiting at the morgue for her, sitting there in his “mind palace.” It was agony how adorable she found that. When she considered it, all of Sherlock was agony. 

Several pain pills and a few Underground stops later, Molly arrived at work with duct tape, toothpaste, and absolutely no shred of dignity. She hadn’t even had time to consider the night before; most of it was a hazy mix of embarrassing memories. She remembered losing her shoe, finding Moriarty who found her shoe, throwing up in the club bathroom, being driven back by Jim, and…then there had been some kissing? Forehead kissing, but why? If it weren’t completely humiliating, she would have put Sherlock on the case.

Sherlock was waiting in the lab, bent over a microscope and smiling wickedly to himself. He was in a good mood, which meant some awful crime had been committed. His beautifully messy dark hair was in a bachelor puff, and his button down shirt was perhaps a little too tight for him. It made Molly’s stomach twist into knots. She called his name a few times before he looked up to notice her. She also was trying to expertly stay far away from him, at the other end of the table. There was no need for him to see her every pore right now.

“Ah, Molly. I need a body. Did you bring the things I asked?” His voice was deliberate and deep. And as usual, there was no “thanks for coming in on your day off, Molly” sort of thing. 

Before she could answer, to her horror, she could see Sherlock starting to “deduce” her. Reduce her was more like it. She could see his gorgeous eyes flicking back and forth as he looked her over. She didn’t look at him directly, and instead chose to focus on some scuff marks on the linoleum floor. 

“So, turned to the bottle? Gone clubbing more like. You look like you’ve been through the shredder, and that concealer is not quite your shade. But there’s something more going on here…”

“Sherlock, let me ex—” Molly began.

“Moriarty!” Sherlock for once actually looked surprised. He furrowed his brow and took a step back from her, as he was still trying to understand.

“How could you possibly know that?” Molly began. Well, this was definitely worst-case-scenario. He knew everything.

“Your guilt, Molly. Your guilt. You’ve never concealed anything from me, whether you know it or not. If it had been a man, you would have been excited to share. Just as you had been proud of ‘Jim from IT.’ But this was something different. You couldn’t even look at me. Me calling you into the morgue on a day off? If you had been merely drinking, you would have used the hangover to make me feel guilty…which I don’t…but this.”

“I understand, Sherlock, thank you. The whole thing was rather a blur. He just gave me a ride home.”

“That wasn’t all, though, was it?” 

“No, he sent me a text later,” Molly said as she pulled her cell phone out of her purse and showed him what she had received. _We are going to have fun, my little mouse._ Sherlock let out a loud “HA!” when he read her response. Molly felt her cheeks redden. This was so embarrassing. Obviously, Moriarty and Sherlock were playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game at her expense. She was so irrelevant sometimes it made her angry. The do-good morgue attendant with her ambitious crushes. 

“I want you to keep writing him,” Sherlock said triumphantly. 

“What?!”

“Yes, and answering is calls if needed. The game is on, don’t you see?” Sherlock placed his hands thoughtfully beneath his chin and turned away from Molly. She rolled her eyes. Great, wonderful, perfect. She was about to become the stepping stone for a super villain, again, and she wouldn’t know her purpose in this “game” until she was tied to some railroad tracks or something.

Sherlock eventually came out of his trance and worked on the case at hand for an hour or two, never telling Molly what exactly he did with the duct tape and toothpaste on the cadaver. Her nausea and general ill will towards Sherlock inspired her to leave a little earlier, letting the guard know that Sherlock would be “doing his usual” in the lab for a while. 

She stepped out into a rainy, horrible, miserable April day. Why had Sherlock even asked her in? There was a Tesco literally five steps away. If it weren’t for those cheekbones and that outrageously gorgeous hair…

“Hello, Molly.”

A voice behind her made her jump, and she quickly turned. Of course it was Jim Moriarty. Of course. Now that she was his weird “thing,” she would have to start checking under couches and behind coats or something. He was perfectly dressed in a black blazer and striped button down, smelling like a million stolen quid. 

“You smell better, dear mouse. Don’t look so nervous! Lighten up! Let’s get hangover food.” Jim spoke in his phony falsetto. It wasn’t making her any less nervous.  


“I’m not very hungry,” Molly said quietly. This was a one sided conversation, anything she said would be decorative. 

“That’s too bad, I want Thai,” Jim said, smiling. Then, for no reason other than he was insane, his smile vanished. He reached his hand across her shoulder and pulled her in for a disconcerting side hug. “I don’t want to be scary. But you’re going to eat with me.”

Molly could feel his breath on her cheeks as he looked down at her, his arm firmly gripping her shoulder. He had a wild, animal look in his eyes as he stared at her. It was not unlike the way Sherlock had dissected her earlier, except in this case, she could feel that Moriarty was hungry for her. Maybe not in a romantic way, but in a disturbing “I want you in a dark basement alone” way. 

Before she could throw in a few more sheepish denials, Jim leaned down and kissed her. Hard. He had both arms tightly around her as his lips pressed hotly to hers, his tongue sneaking its way into her mouth. It was an assault of a kiss; she felt her insides twisting and untwisting as she grabbed his waist to keep from falling. She felt breathless and totally awake; everything was working full speed. She hated to admit that it was a good kiss. But it was a damn good kiss. She wasn’t sure how this fit into Sherlock and Moriarty’s genius vs. genius game.

Moriarty released her, only a little, and moved his lips close to her ear. 

“You’re mine,” he whispered. It would have been the most titillating moment of her life if he hadn’t finished it with an insane villain laugh. 

Oh god.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some wild thing! Rated E for EXCELLENT!

Molly Hooper was sitting across from Jim Moriarty at a very expensive Thai restaurant. He had already ordered for her; she hadn’t been allowed to even open the menu. A classically scary bodyguard/henchman was seated by himself a table away, checking his phone. It didn’t take Sherlock’s power of deduction to see that the henchman had a gun inside his jacket. Molly shivered.

“Spicy green curry is the best,” Moriarty announced, giving her his finest creepy smile. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, knowing he wouldn’t answer. Or rather, he would answer, but the response would be buried in riddles.

“I’m hungry, so I want curry.”

“You know what I mean,” she said curtly. She bristled at the idea that Sherlock had actually encouraged her to entertain this psycho. It was hurtful how little he cared.

“Blah blah blah, dull. I don’t want to explain. I can do anything I want, I look fabulous in a blazer, etcetera. Furthermore, I don’t want you to be on Sherlock’s side anymore. I need you for something. I want you to change teams,” he said with a giggle.

“You’re crazy,” she whispered, looking nervously at the henchman. It seemed like the buff bodyguard was not paying attention to them, so she said it again. “You’re crazy, and I don’t know why you assume I would just…work for you or something.”

“Not work for me! Not work! You work hard enough Molly-wog! No, all you have to do is like me. Just a little.”

Their food arrived a moment after, and Jim stared mercilessly at his “Molly-wog” as the waitress arranged their plates. Molly blushed under his glare; she could practically feel the heat of it pressing on her like a wool blanket. It made her angry that her unrequited love for Sherlock placed her at the center of this. She tried to pretend for a moment that Moriarty was just Jim, an attractive well-dressed man on a date with her. Would she still be blushing as hard? Would her heart still be pumping like an engine?

She wasn’t especially hungry. Her stomach was still unsettled from last night, and the mess of hot yellow curry was giving her some unpleasant flashbacks.

“If you excuse me, I just need to use the bathroom,” she said quietly, trying not to attract the bodyguard’s attention. However, as she went to push out her chair and stand, the henchman did the exact same thing. Moriarty gave the bodyguard a subtle “no” headshake, and turned to smile at Molly.

“I think we’ve all seen enough of your bodily functions, Molly. Don’t take too long, little mousey. Your curry grows cold.”

There was no point in running, really. In all likelihood, the entire restaurant was made up of his employees. She walked calmly to the ladies’ room and exhaled deeply as she entered. It was completely empty, and she popped into the first available stall. The only sound was her heart thumping and the classical music playing through bathroom speakers in the ceiling. 

She thought briefly about texting Sherlock for backup, but changed her mind. Moriarty wasn’t going to hurt her if he wanted her to like him. Maybe? And besides that, Sherlock encouraged this diabolical connection. She felt a little like crying. There was really nowhere to turn. Her life was filled with physical and emotional henchmen, always blocking her way. Damn that horrid and beautiful Sherlock.

Walking out of the stall, her heart ceased to function when she saw Jim leaning against the sink, his arms crossed. He was waiting for her. She looked desperately towards the door.

“No one is coming in here, don’t worry,” he purred. That was not comforting at all.

He took two steps toward her, reaching out and pulling her in to his arms. He bent down to kiss her, but this time it was a gentle kiss. A polite kiss. His lips burned against hers, his hands pressed tightly on her lower and upper back. He spun her around so that she was half sitting against the sink with nowhere to go. She could see him looking at them tangled up in the mirror, and he held her tightly.

He smelled delicious and overwhelmingly of expensive cologne, and her body relaxed a little against the sink. This was probably not the kind of game Sherlock thought Moriarty was going to play with her. 

“Sherlock,” Jim said quietly, as if reading her thoughts, “is worthless.”

He traced one hand over her collar bone as the other hand stayed firmly planted on her lower back, creeping lower. With one hand, he tore her blouse, popping off two buttons in one swift go. She heard the buttons hit the floor, and gasped.

“Sherlock is an idiot,” he whispered again, cupping her left breast through her bra and squeezing gently. “He despises you,” he said again, pulling the fabric of the bra aside and revealing her pert pink nipple. She felt trapped by his weight, overcome by his warmth. He placed one leg firmly between her legs and gave it a lift, so she was partly sitting on him. She prayed he couldn’t feel the wetness spreading between her legs. Oh god, if Sherlock only knew. 

“Sherlock wouldn’t dream of doing what I’m about to do to you,” he said, grinning. He kissed her neck deftly and bent down, taking her nipple into his mouth and sucking hard. As he did this, Molly felt his hands fiddling with the top of her pants. With another fast yank, the top of them was undone. She shivered anxiously, and he sucked at her breast harder. Lord have mercy on her miserable soul, she was enjoying this just as much as she hated it. Pleasure and pain, the yin and the yang. 

“You’ll find I’m much nicer,” he muttered, his mouth travelling north again to her neck while his hands travelled south. One hand groped her ass while another dipped beneath her underwear, between her legs. She let out a mutinous sigh, and he smiled as if he were enjoying a joke. 

What followed made her burn with shame, as his fingers moved in and out of her, his thumb rubbing her button. “Sherlock is a prick,” he continued, “a goody goody.” His hands worked swiftly, she pressed into them, dizzy with pleasure, desperate to cum. The man’s one hand was the best she’d ever had. It was hugely embarrassing, and she turned her head away from his and closed her eyes. She tried not to think of what Sherlock would say if he saw this. Even worse, the thought was pushing her closer to the edge. 

“That’s my mouse,” Jim growled as he bit her neck, hard. She leaned her head against his shoulder and braced herself. His hands worked quickly, fingers dipping in and out of her, the heat of it making her whole body sweat. It felt incredible, and she hated him. And finally, against every proper instinct she had, she came. Her body writhed against his; she bit her lip until she tasted blood trying not to make a sound. 

Jim pulled away from her, taking her body in with his eyes again. Her shirt was popped open, her one breast peeking out the top of her bra. He started to laugh a little, his usual crazy super-villain laugh. She felt humiliated, confused, exposed, and embarrassed. What had just happened? 

“You little traitor,” he said, laughing. “When I call you tomorrow, at 7 pm, answer. I have a job for you.” 

“Why?” she asked, though she knew it was pointless. 

“Because I’m awesommmeee,” he replied in a singsong crazy voice.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has been leaving kudos, I love you! And stay tuned, I have some big plans for the next chapter. Ah, Moriarty.

Molly Hooper arrived at work the next morning feeling so nervous, it was like there was a mariachi band playing in her stomach. Every muscle was tense, every sound made her jump. She was going to have to face Sherlock again, the day after her ludicrous bathroom encounter with Moriarty. She didn’t have the poker face to lie to Sherlock, but she had to. If she wanted to die an old woman, and not of embarrassment, she had to keep this secret.

She made herself a shaky cup of coffee in the lounge before work, and tried to ignore the clock. Sherlock could bust into the morgue at any moment, demanding things like nail polish or hot sauce or some other implausible thing. And even if Sherlock didn’t suspect anything, she still had to decide on the 7 pm phone call Moriarty had promised. Would she answer it? Because every rational part of her said “hell no,” but something more guttural told her “probably yes.” Ignoring the fact that he was an insane criminal, he was still the only man to give her a scrap of attention in all of London. Possibly the world. She shook the thought away and drank more coffee.

Sherlock arrived at the laboratory shortly after she had started work on some tissue samples, and just as her coffee rush started to kick in. She was as jumpy as ever. She knocked over half a table of paperwork when he opened the door. 

“Nice one, Molly,” she grumbled to herself, gathering up the paperwork under Sherlock’s X-ray vision. 

“How was our friend Moriarty?” Sherlock asked briskly. She knew he was waiting for a fast response. He hated to wait.

“Oh, um, well…”

“Fine. If you won’t tell me, then I’ll tell you. I know you’ve seen him last night. I know you expect to see him again soon. I know he obviously didn’t torture you, but something just as painful happened, as you are turning red as your messy lipstick. You don’t want to tell me about it, which is, I’m sure, exactly what he wants,” Sherlock raced through his proud little speech like an auctioneer while Molly wasted away in shame.

“So Molly tell me. What was your price?” Sherlock added after a moment. His impossibly gorgeous eyes stared directly into hers, and there was an adorable crease between his eyebrows. She would have loved to be the recipient of his “think face” at any other moment. But not now. Not when she had two buttons missing on her favorite blouse because his arch enemy tore it open.

“My price?” she echoed numbly.

“Let me make this clear for that little dull brain of yours: what did Moriarty do to keep what happened last night a secret?”

“I…can’t, Sherlock. I don’t want to discuss it.” 

“You don’t want to, but you have to. I need to know what he’s doing. Just for one moment stop being such a victim and tell me!” Sherlock shouted. 

Molly had been pushed too far. Sherlock wasn’t her boyfriend, he wasn’t even a friend. Moriarty hadn’t asked her to blow up Baker Street, he had taken her to dinner and “kind of” made love to her in the bathroom. She was under no obligation to share that with him. And he had no right to insult her for the ten billionth time.

“No, Sherlock, for once I mean it. No. I’m not going to tell you what happened last night. If something happens that involves you, you’ll know. But it’s not always about you! Sometimes things happen that don’t involve you at all!” Now Molly was shouting. 

Sherlock was obviously surprised. He blinked a few times and took a step back, analyzing what had just happened. 

“Are you…seeing him?” he asked, as if the words were bitter in his mouth. 

“I don’t know Sherlock. Are you? Because you two seem to have an unhealthy thing going on.” Molly was surprised by her own words. She was genuinely annoyed.  
“You should stop seeing him. You’re playing right into his hands. Can’t you see how weak you are?” 

Molly had enough. She pushed Sherlock aside and marched out of the lab, dashing into the nearest bathroom. The bathroom’s gender divide wouldn’t stop Sherlock, but she doubted he would follow. He had fully made his point. She sat on the toilet and listened to the sound of a sink dripping until she knew it was time to put on her big girl pants and return to work.

Sherlock was gone when she returned to the lab. He probably came just to interrogate her, and was now hot on the trail to deduce what had happened last night. In equal parts, she hated and admired him. He was probably already picking up hairs on the floor of the Thai restaurant, piecing together the “date.” She rolled her eyes and tried to focus on her work. 

Molly’s stayed at the lab late, even later than she realized. At precisely 7 pm, she received a text:

_You’ve been working too long. How does Italian sound tonight? –JM_

Molly was determined not to answer. She wanted desperately to reply with some snarky quip, but Sherlock calling her “weak” played on repeat in her head. She switched her phone to silent and tucked it deep in the receipt pocket of her purse. She wished she could put her growling stomach on silent; Italian actually sounded delicious.

Time passed silently alone in the lab. 7:30, 8:00, and then 8:30. Molly was starting to become ravenous. She was just about to remove her lab coat and head home when she saw something that ruined her appetite completely. Moriarty was peeking through the glass of the lab door, smiling at her, a bag of takeout in his hand. He waved.

“You were working so hard, I didn’t want to interrupt,” Jim began as he entered the lab. “So I brought my little morgue attendant some din din.”

As always, Moriarty was cheerful in that weird, nihilistic kind of way. He wore pin striped pants and a gray t-shirt beneath a chic blazer. The man had style. Molly felt her stomach flip-flopping, she wasn’t sure how to feel about him. He set the takeout on the lab counter and gave her a brief kiss before she could get over her own surprise.

“So, you’re not answering my texts and calls? Are we breaking up?” he joked. 

“We’re not…anything. I don’t want to play a game where I don’t know the rules,” she said tersely. 

“Rules are boring. Be mine, Molly Hooper. Come to my house and play chess with me. Eat this takeout I brought you, because it’s delicious.” 

“What are you doing with me? Why do you think having me is such an advantage over Sherlock? He doesn’t like me. He’s not my friend.”

“Can’t I want you because you have such a cute little nose?” Jim asked, stepping in front of her until they were nearly touching. 

“You can have anyone. I’m not special.”

“May I disagree?” 

She could see where this was going. She could see it written on his face like a chalkboard, blazing through his eyes. He pressed his body against hers and leaned down for a bruising kiss, locked against her so tightly that she couldn’t move. His hands moved against her back, running them up and down until she was tingling all over. She melted, just as “weak” as Sherlock had said. Whatever. If Moriarty was using her, this was a hell of a way to do it. 

His lips unlocked briefly from hers as his fingers made quick work of her blouse buttons. She was grateful there were only security cameras in the hallway, because this was about to get “not safe for work.” Jim tossed her shirt aside and kissed her as his hands reached behind her, unhooking her bra. At first, she felt too shy to touch him. But now she wanted to. She ran a wary hand through his hair; it a little stiff with product. Then she tentatively placed her hands beneath the back of his shirt, and jumped a little when he moaned at her touch, pressing into her. 

He was undoing her slacks and tugging them off her waist before she had a chance to listen to her inner voice of reason saying “this man is a psychopath! Run away!” She found herself hungry for him, unbuttoning his pants and tugging at them with equal fervor. She could feel the corners of his mouth work into a smile as they kissed. He was enjoying this. 

He stepped away from her just enough to finish the rest of the job for her, completely removing his pants. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. Moriarty was officially freeballing. He was beautiful, svelte and muscled. And he was huge; Molly could feel her face redden. He didn’t give her time to lose focus as he went down on his knees and removed her sensible shoes, her socks, and her pants. And of course, her embarrassingly old-fashioned cotton underwear. She was completely naked, her skin was pasty and goosebumped in the lab’s frigid air conditioning. This had always been her fantasy, not perhaps the part with Jim Moriarty, but having sex in the lab. 

Jim pushed the paperwork off the lab bench in one violent swing. He scooped her up like the hero in a romance novel and laid her on the metal table; just another body about to be examined. She was getting extremely wet at the thought, even though this was beyond unprofessional. In one leap, he jumped onto the table, a condom wrapper in one hand. He had a crazy sort of half-smile on his face, his hair standing up from her touch. He looked down at her like he wanted to eat her, as if she were last night’s green curry. The cold lab lights shone behind his head as she lay helpless beneath him, forming a halo of sorts. 

He unrolled the condom over his frankly huge cock, and grinned. She was almost shaking with anticipation. He bent over her and used one hand to hold her arms over her head, pressing them so tightly it hurt. Then he nudged her legs open, and crouched down to enter her missionary style. He groaned sweetly, and she found herself groaning in response. She was lost in it, dizzy with the smell of him. He moved in and out of her so slowly that it was agony, holding her down as he moved, crushing her.  
“Molly, Molly, I want to hurt you,” he whispered to her, so sweetly that it made her moan.

The pace quickened. He was already getting that “about to cum” face that all men, no matter who they were, seemed to get. This was why she gasped when he pulled out completely and let go of her arms. He looked down at her, sweaty and lovely, clenching his jaw. He bent between her legs and she gasped again as she felt his tongue against her clit, searching her. It felt so good she was worried about dying ironically in the morgue. His tongue made quick work of her; she was pressing against him and wiggling her hips before she knew it. It was dizzying, perfect. He pushed her over the edge as his tongue flicked in and out of her. 

She came so hard she thought she was about to roll off the table and take him with her. She held nothing back. When she was spent, she heard Jim laughing, apparently impressed with his own prowess. Instead of finishing himself, he crawled off the table and stood beside her, stroking her forehead and running his fingers through her hair.

“Lovely girl. Wasn’t that fun?”

She looked at him questioningly, but didn’t want to ask it. He didn’t want to finish himself?

As if he could read her mind, he answered her. “It takes a little more to put me over the edge. Do you want to help me?”

“Yes,” she said, sort of whispering. He was like a dirty book she couldn’t put down, a habit she couldn’t say no to. 

“Say it louder.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s get dressed and I’ll show you what gets me off. Will you come with me?”

She nodded another yes.

Molly was still seeing stars. He looked tenderly down at her as he reached over to help her sit up. She felt, for once, like he was merely a sad, kinky man. And she was merely a sad, lonely woman. She dressed herself quickly, numb and totally relaxed. Moriarty watched her while he pulled on his own clothes. He wasn’t examining her like Sherlock. He was looking at her like he wanted her. 

“Before I knock you unconscious, I just want you to know, you are a great shag.”

Molly’s eyes widened. Moriarty reached into the takeout bag and pulled out a syringe between folds of white napkins. She was on the floor before she could make a sound.


	6. Chapter 6

Molly Hooper woke up hog-tied in rope, suspended over the River Thames by a yellow industrial crane. For fear that any flailing would send her shooting into the murky black water below, she instead chose the more sensible scream of terror. However, she had also been gagged. She looked down warily onto the dock, where Moriarty stood smiling with a megaphone in his hand. This was so disgustingly ridiculous that she nearly fainted from the comic villainy.

"Hellooo there, Molly-wog!" he called, his voice grainy sounding through the megaphone. "You were wondering earlier what got me off. Well honey, this is it."

She let loose another muffled scream. In the control box of the crane, she could see Moriarty's beefy henchman having a cigarette. The dock was secluded by stacks of metal shipping containers and nothingness. It must have been late, extremely late. There was not a boat in sight on the river. And even if there were, she was just a little fish wriggling on a massive rig. She started praying to several gods in which she didn't believe. And then also to Sherlock, in whom she did.

"So, on tonight's menu, we have your violent death by drowning, which would be very tasty. Or, we have Sherlock, coming to save you in a very yummy way."

So, Sherlock must know about this. She was giddy with relief; this sort of thing was irresistible to both. She already imagined Sherlock and Watson dashing around the corner with Lestrade and a billion officers to her rescue. Her hero.

"Tut-tut! Don't look so happy! He doesn't actually know you're in danger. In fact, he thinks you're just having a nice meal with me, the danger is inferred. I texted him. I'll be honest, mousey Molly, it doesn't look good for you. He's not keen about you, or your well being."

Bloody hell. There went that idea. Of course Moriarty was being a tricky wanker. Of course there was a catch. He couldn't even bring her decent takeout without it being some kind of nasty surprise. So Sherlock wouldn't come to check on her, even if he knew where they were. He just wanted her to keep playing Moriarty's game until it was "not boring" for him. In light of this realization, Molly starting wiggling her hands furiously, trying to find some way to slip out of the rope. And then what?

"Well, I'm bored. He's got five minutes, or into the water you go. All tied up like a little ham hock, dead from exposure or drowning or yadda yadda," Moriarty announced, starting to laugh into the megaphone. "You ask why? You're smart Molly-wog. I actually like you. One day, very soon, Sherlock is going to have a fall. I don't want you around to catch him. In fact, even if you, by some chance, get out of this mess, I want you to watch as Sherlock doesn't come around that corner. Because. He. Doesn't. Care."

Moriarty's voice darkened; it became almost a snarl. Molly was shivering in the air, still furiously twisting her hands until she could feel blood trickling down them, peeled from the rawness of the rope. She held back tears, thinking of her cat, her family, and her friends. She swallowed those tears with the hope that she could somehow escape, and would need clear eyes and a clenched jaw.

"Time is almost up. Before you die, I want you to know three things. Number one, this is a lot of fun for me. Number two, Sherlock is an idiot. And number three, your pussy is deeeelicious," Moriarty cackled as he nodded to the henchman operating the crane.

The crane's arm reached out further over the river, and Molly's wiggling turned frantic. The rope was simply too tight. She could see the metal latch that held the rope above her head. With one button, she knew it would open and send her shooting down into the water. Goodbye, tea and biscuits. Goodbye, snuggling with her cat. Goodbye, Sherlock. It would be an agonizing death. She had seen plenty of bloated bodies fished out of the Thames. Like bulging blueberries.

"Five minutes is up! Goodbye, Molly, I love you! Well, I don't really love you, but anything that makes you feel loved at the end, right?"

She didn't have time to process that hurtful statement. She plunged and she sunk. The water's surface hit her like a sheet of ice; it was so cold that it felt like peeled off her skin. Panic was everything, and her whole body flailed wildly for survival. She needed the rope to be loosened just a bit for her wrists to be free. Then she could use her arms to swim towards the riverbank, and hopefully survive the hypothermia. Her ears rang, everything hurt. With the gag, she hadn't taken a full breath before falling. Her chest screamed for air.

Molly might not have been strong, but in this particular moment, Molly was a lioness. She yanked her hands through the rope until the water around her swirled with blood. She freed her left hand, and it was just enough. With her left arm, she scooped at the water and swam up towards the surface, following the bubbles that rose up around her body.

She surfaced with a scream, sucking in air through her nose and trying to subdue the panic and the shivers coursing through her. Her body was shaking so hard that her left arm could barely paddle forward. Unsure how far she was from Moriarty and the crane, she simply tried to swim to the closest part of the dock. It felt like it took hours; she had no way of judging. In this crucial moment of survival, all she could think of was: who did she hate more? Moriarty or Sherlock?

Her left arm was numb and exhausted by the time she had made any headway towards the dock. She could soon feel the slime of mossy rocks beneath her, and used her arm like a sea monster to crawl up onto the scummy dock. It was disgusting, painful, freezing, and in every other way the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Well, she could have died.

With nearly supernatural strength, she wriggled up far enough onto the shore to be safe from the water. She laid face down on her stomach and used her free hand to try and undo the rope around her right wrist. Face squashed in the rocks, she cursed the day she ever laid eyes on Sherlock. Only secondly did she curse the day she was born.

"Molly!"

A voice from beyond screamed her name. Fabulous. The Angel of Death sounded exactly like Sherlock. She ignored it and continued working at the rope.

"Molly!"

The voice was beside her now, tugging free the ropes around her arm and legs. This was no mere voice, it was actually Sherlock. She groaned wearily as he undid the wet gag around her mouth. She was actually half lying in his lap now, looking up into his shocked face. He did come, he did care. But he had arrived late, so maybe he only half cared? She struggled to catch her breath and understand everything at once.

Shivering and still recovering, Sherlock removed his signature, gorgeous coat, and draped it around her. Her teeth chattered like a rattle. She was only slightly warmed by his concerned face and crinkled brow.

"So this was his game. To have me arrive too late," Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

Molly looked up into his adorable puff of dark hair, his violently beautiful Cupid's bow, his bright eyes. He was peering down at her like she was a burnt cake or a broken umbrella. It was pure objective pity, but right now, she didn't care. She had survived. She was alive.

In an act of daring completely unlike her usual fare, Molly sat up, wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck, and gave him a deep kiss while tucked beneath his thick coat. She was filthy from the Thames, and she could almost feel Sherlock cringing as the river water soaked through his purple button-up shirt. But she did not give one fuck. She held him tightly in her arms and kissed him like she had always imagined kissing him.

And, to her delight, shock, and joy, she could feel Sherlock's arm's tighten around her freezing torso. She could feel his lips pressed firmly against hers. Not perhaps the expression of unbridled lust she had wanted from him, but it was enough. He was kissing her back. For whatever reason, perhaps pity or an apology for being late, Sherlock returned Molly's icy kiss with gusto. She felt her heart electrified, buzzing like an alarm clock. A tiny part of him cared, and it was all she needed.

Sherlock Holmes kissed Molly Hooper. And it was fucking fantastic.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I will be uploading a John/Molly story shortly, so stay tuned! And please review if you enjoyed this, I really appreciate the love. You guys are the best! :)


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